I

In the weeks following it was made clearly evident that Wynne Rendall was taking no precautions that his wife should share his new prosperity. Conceivably he thought that the mere sharing of his name—a name which had sprung into such instant prominence—was adequate compensation for any woman.

The newspapers had given him unsparing praise, and already he had been approached by several managements with a view to undertaking their productions. To these offers he shook his head, replying that he was a writer by profession and not a producer.

In an interview he told the reporter that he only worked in the direction of his ambitions, and for the moment his ambitions were satisfied.

This was, of course, mere persiflage, but several members of the reading public thought it very fine.

He was asked everywhere—but only accepted invitations which appealed to him. At the functions he attended he usually contrived to fire off at least a couple of startling phrases which were remembered and repeated by those persons who unintentionally work inside advertising for the would-be great.

Being out and about so much he did not bother to alter the conditions of life at home. It is true he left rather more money for Eve to use, but since he showed no disposition for her to take a place beside him on the new plane she found no incentive to change the old régime.

On the morning after the play was produced, with all the notices before her, Eve had stretched out a hand to him, and said:

“You’ve won—absolutely you’ve won. My dear, I am so proud.”

“Yes, I’ve made a start. There’s a long way to go yet.”

With a chilly sense she felt that he had not said this from any modesty, but rather to delay admitting the success for which they had fought their battle.

She was conscious afterwards that he shunned the topic of his success, and kept the conversation on impersonal lines.

That glorious moment to which all her hopes had been pinned and all her labours consecrated did not mature into reality. It seemed that he was floating out of her life as a steamship passes a yacht at sea. And so, with the measure of his success, there came about in Eve a corresponding stagnation.

It would have been easy then to have engaged a servant to do the housework, to have bought furniture, linen, and the many delightful things she had planned to do; but somehow the inclination to do so had gone. It was preferable to have occupation of some sort, if only to keep her thoughts from brooding on these disappointments. Besides, she took an almost cynical interest in wondering how long he would allow her to remain as a drudge who worked for him with her two hands.

Wynne himself was cheerfully indifferent to the trend of her thoughts. He was in excellent spirits, enthusiastic for the present, and full of plans for the future.

When “Witches” came to an end he said he proposed to put on a play of his own. Lane Quiltan would supply the capital.

“Have you asked him?” said Eve.

“Not yet.”

“Wouldn’t it be better to do so before being too sure?”

He tossed the idea aside with:

“Some things one can take for granted. I am as confident of his support as I am confident that at least five young ladies in the company are wondering when I shall invite them to Brighton for the week-end.”

With rather an effort, Eve replied:

“Only five?”

“I said in the company,” he very rapturously retorted.

The suggestion of these words struck a peculiar chord of memory in Eve. They recalled very vividly a vulgar little cousin of hers—a boy scarcely out of his teens—who had boasted, with considerable pride, of a liaison with a young lady at a tobacconist’s. It was an unpleasant parallel, but she could not clear it from her mind.

Hitherto the physical side of Wynne had been so dormant. She had nursed the shell which held his spirit, and nourished it to a manlier form. As he stood there before speaking she realized that in body he was a man of different fibre, capable of passions not only of the mind. It would be tragic and pitiable if these were to be awakened by the same vulgar instincts which attack the little Lotharios of nineteen.

This was the man who had starved for a week to buy a copy of Walter Pater.

She fell to wondering whether, had their first meeting been now instead of then, she could have sat the night through in his rooms without fear of consequence.

And while she wondered upon these matters, Wynne’s eyes travelled critically over her face and figure.

“You’re rather drab,” he thought; “you haven’t much colour. If your hair were dressed differently it would be an improvement, perhaps. That is certainly a deplorable dress—and your hands!”

A man whose function is to produce plays acquires a ready knack of judging possible qualities by external indications. The habit is not one to be recommended in the home, for in practising it he is apt to overlook many essentials and ignore grave liabilities.

A just man would not accuse a sweep of possessing a blackened soul because his face was sooted from sweeping the flues. The instance may sound trivial enough, but it is no less trivial than the train of thought running through Wynne’s lightly-poised mind as he contemplated the wife of his own making. His eyes were deceived by petty superficiality, and blinded to the beauty veiled behind a screen of three years’ unremitting toil. He did not bother to speculate if that beauty would leap to glorious life at the touch of the hand that swept the screen away. To follow his thoughts to their inglorious anchorage, he was sensible to a wave of self-pity. It seemed rather ill-luck, with the ball of success at his feet, a fresh glow of manhood ripening in his veins, that he should be tied to a woman who had lost the fine edge of her desirability.

“I see,” said Eve at last; “and do you propose to disappoint them?”

Wynne dropped his cigarette into the grate.

“I never know what I propose to do. The greatest mistake in the world is to cut the picnic sandwiches before knowing what the weather will be.”

II

It was more to please his humour than from any liking for the lesser grades of courtship that Wynne came to amuse himself at the theatre by talking perilous rubbish to a highly unimportant young lady of the cast.

Never before had he indulged in this particular sport, and never, until lately, had the temptation to do so allured him.

To tell the truth, he was not a little flattered by the success of his early attempts at love badinage; although, had he chosen to look beneath the surfaces of the very shallow waters which were ruffled by his wit, he would have found little cause for self-congratulation.

Esme Waybury, the favoured, had an ax to grind. In her trivial soul was ambition to get on (“getting on” implying the receipt of a salary large enough to satisfy her tastes in shoe-leather and millinery). A little moral laxity is sometimes a short road to the realizations of these trifles. Favours, artfully bestowed in the right quarter, are often more fruitful of success than is genuine talent.

To her, Wynne Rendall was a power in the land—a power which, with a little tact, might easily be diverted toward herself. Without being affected by prickings of conscience, she decided, if occasion offered, she would compromise herself with him, and step lightly from the wreckage of her virtue to spheres of extravagance hitherto unattainable. To the furtherance of this ignoble end, she pouted, smiled, and performed those various verbal and facial evolutions which, for a hundred centuries, have served to divert mankind from the straight and narrow path.

Esme was one of those pouting darlings who look infinitely sad at the smallest word, with that quality of sadness which provokes thoughts of remedial kisses in the male mind.

Eve produced her first pout at an understudy rehearsal taken by Wynne.

“You know,” he had said, “you are very bad in this part.”

Esme then pouted.

“Well, aren’t you?” continued Wynne.

Esme added four quick blinks to the pout very adroitly.

That was all, but when Wynne passed through the stage door Esme and her pout were there—a vision to disturb dreams.

Wynne smiled as he walked up the street. It was pleasant to reflect that by half a dozen words he could cause a pout to be produced of so enduring a nature. As an observer, he considered the elements which go to make a good pout. Undoubtedly Esme’s pout had been a good one. Her lips were of a sweet red, and moist with the dews of grief. With a good pout one saw ever such a little more of lips than one was accustomed to see.

No man can think long of this subject without considering the possibilities thereof, and for the first time Wynne was consciously drawn to the idea that it must be a sweet enough task to kiss a pair of pretty lips. Further to this line of thought, he deemed that it might be pleasanter still to kiss a pair of pouting lips. And here his investigation stopped short in a sharp surprise that such considerations could find a place in his over-stocked brain.

Clearly he must have changed in some important features. Was it a sign of age or youth? he asked himself. He became aware that his feet rang heartily upon the pavement, and when he filled his lungs with good air the life quickened in his veins.

“It’s youth,” he said aloud—“youth!”

To the astonishment of a passer-by he stretched out his arms luxuriously and laughed:

“I’m young—young!” Then with a wave of self-pity: “Lord! I’ve worked hard!”

III

Even the most virtuous of men are conscious of a foolish elation when marked for favour from a woman’s eyes. They do not, as a rule, inquire over-deeply into the value of the glances bestowed upon them. In theory Wynne Rendall was not in the least virtuous. At the club he had frequently remarked that, if lack of virtue were not such a general failing with mankind, he would certainly have been a very devil of a fellow. But this and many similar statements had been mere phrase-making, designed to fit the wall-space of a conversation.

To adopt a cynical attitude toward human frailty was part of his mental routine, and in no way sprung from a natural distaste for sin. Until now sex had left him unmoved and apathetic. He had watched others flounder in the toils of emotion, himself unstirred by curiosity or desire.

With the discovery of Esme’s pout and his own youth arose the opportunity to direct the currents of his stored wisdom upon himself. And, after the fashion of most men since the world began, he did no such thing. He made no attempt to consider whither these thoughts led, or where they drifted, but contentedly let himself gravitate toward the enchanting vortices so lately revealed to him.

And so, on the night on which he had told his wife that he never knew what he proposed to do, he engaged Miss Esme in trivial conversation, and found in the practice a new and amusing diversion.

He was sufficiently entertained to mention some of the passages which had occurred between them at breakfast next day, and thereafter the name Esme—always referred to in the lightest manner—recurred with some frequency in his conversation.

But, if he were pleased with the affair, Miss Esme deplored its tedious progression, and did her noblest to smarten up the course of events. In this, however, she met with ill-success. Wynne was amused, but no more, and made no attempt to encourage a closer intimacy.

There are few women who would have undergone those first months of Wynne’s success as courageously as did Eve. There are few who would have followed so particularly, and with such understanding, the mental processes through which he passed.

To the Esme affair she attached no great importance. She realized that any healthy-bodied youngster would have outgrown the Esme period as he passed from his teens. That Wynne had failed to do so was a natural consequence of the starved, brain-fagging life he had led.

“How old Dame Nature must laugh at us and all our philosophies,” Uncle Clem had said. Very clearly Eve saw the meaning he had sought to convey. Dame Nature must be laughing now—laughing at the natural reaction of nature denied.

A woman will always make allowances for the man she loves, and she forced herself to believe that the period through which Wynne was passing would prove transient. When it had passed the real metamorphosis might come about—and the future promised to each other.

One of the greatest mercies is the survival of the hoping habit. In imagination it still seemed possible Wynne would turn to her with the light of pride and possession, and call her to his side because he needed her there.

So once more she harnessed her soul to wait, though the collar galled as never before.

IV

One night Wynne said:

“I shall tackle Quiltan tomorrow about backing my play. I would have spoken at the club tonight, but some one always interrupts. Think you could provide a decent meal if I asked him to lunch here?”

Eve’s spirits leapt.

“Of course I could,” she said.

At last, and for the first time, he was bringing his interests home. Unimportant though his words may have seemed they were full of the most glorious possibilities. It meant so much more than asking a man to lunch. It meant that, at a critical point, he and she would be side by side to discuss a great step in his future—in their future. Besides, it would be so splendid to meet Quiltan—to know and be known by a friend of Wynne’s. She suddenly realized in the three years of their married life there had been no friends—nothing but work and their partnership to relieve the grey monotony of existence. At the mere suggestion of Quiltan’s coming she was bubbling over with excitement.

“What’s the matter?” asked Wynne.

“I don’t know—only I’m awfully, awfully glad. It’s—I haven’t met many people lately—and your asking him—here, I— What would you like for lunch?”

“Heaven knows! Any notepaper? I’ll drop him a line.”

That night Eve lay awake and her thoughts were good to own. They began nowhere and travelled everywhere—out into the unknown and beyond. And because of a sudden intense happiness she forgot all manner of doubts which of late had oppressed and haunted her.

She rose early and took a pretty dress from a drawer—a dress which, because he seemed not to care about these things, she foolishly had never worn before him. When she returned from the shops she was laden with parcels, and light of heart.

Wynne was standing in the sitting-room with an expression of some displeasure upon his face. The spring sunshine coming through the windows emphasized the shabbiness of the furniture and appointments. A golden shaft caught Eve’s face as she entered, and made her radiant. But Wynne did not look toward her. His eyes rested on the tufts of horsehair projecting from the upholstery of the old armchair—the sunken springs, and the threadbare dilapidation of the carpet.

“I’ve bought a sole,” said Eve, “and some cutlets and peas, and I’ll make an omelette with apricot jam⁠—”

“Yes—all right,” said Wynne.

“But I must hurry, for there’s a fearsome lot to do.”

Away she went to the kitchen, where she donned an apron, rolled up her sleeves, and got to work.

Never since the early days of her marriage had she set about her duties so happily.

“God’s going to be good to me soon,” she said to the frying-pan. “I know He is—I know He is.”

The sunshine thrilled her veins with a new sense of life. Two affectionate sparrows set up a lover-like duet on the kitchen window-sill. The air was full of young spring. All was right with the world.

“Hallo!” It was Wynne’s voice calling. “I say, I can’t possibly ask Quiltan to this shabby old place. It would bias any one. I’ll ring him up and tell him to meet me at the club. G’bye.”

A moment later the front door slammed. The sound scared the sparrows at their courtship and sent them fluttering to a tree below.

Then Eve sat down, and resting her head on the kitchen table, cried as if her soul were broken in two.

V

Wynne rang up Quiltan’s number, and was answered by the manservant, who said:

“Very good, sir. I will tell him.” But when he went to do so he found his master had already gone out.

Lane Quiltan was somewhat surprised when the door of Wynne’s flat was opened by a girl who by no stretch of imagination could be thought to belong to the servant class. She wore a coarse apron, her sleeves were rolled up, and there was a redness about her eyes that could only have come from tears.

“I beg your pardon,” he said; “is this Mr. Rendall’s flat?”

“Yes.”

“Is he—at home?”

“No,” replied Eve. Then, as she realized what had happened, a smile broke the tragical lines of her expression.

“He asked me to lunch,” said Quiltan. “May I come in?”

“Yes, please do.”

He followed her to the shabby sitting-room.

“I’m afraid,” said Eve, “my husband won’t be back to lunch. He was telephoning to ask you to meet him at the club instead.”

“Your husband?” He looked at her in surprise. “I didn’t know Rendall was married.”

She bit her lip—it was rather an unkind stab. He noticed this, and hastened to say:

“That is, he never told me.”

“Why should he?” she answered quickly.

He looked at her for a longish while before replying:

“I can see quite a number of reasons.”

The words were spoken with simple sincerity, and they brought a glow of bright colour to her cheeks. Thinking perhaps he had offended, he said:

“Well, since he has gone to the club, I suppose I had better follow him there. I don’t want to go a bit, and I’m sorry we shan’t be lunching together.”

“So am I,” she nodded.

“Why aren’t we?” he asked, unexpectedly.

“I suppose there is no great harm telling you—since you are here. This was to have been a business meeting, and Wynne thought the surroundings might prove—unproductive.”

“Oh!” He hesitated; then: “When did he think that?”

“An hour ago.”

“Then,” said Quiltan, with quick intuition, “the lunch must have been partially prepared?”

“It was.”

He took a deep breath.

“Isn’t it a pity to waste it? I mean, don’t you think I might be invited to share it with you?”

There was something very attractive in the tentative manner in which he made the proposal.

“Do you want to stay?”

“Very much indeed.”

“Do stay, then—please stay. I was rather— I mean, it would make a difference if you stayed. But I haven’t finished cooking yet. You’d have to wait a little.”

“So much the better.”

“I’ll be as quick as I can. There are plenty of books here.”

He made a wry face.

“Of course, if I must read I will,” he said; “but I’d much rather help cook.”

“You can if you like.”

“That’s jolly of you.”

He threw his overcoat over the back of a chair, and together they made their way to the kitchen.

“I had no idea a sole had its face powdered before being put in a fry-pan,” he observed, and made her laugh merrily.

“It goes in like a white Parisian, and comes out a sunburnt Spaniard,” she returned.

“You look as if some sun would do you no harm.”

“I dare say it wouldn’t. Haven’t tried the experiment. Would you like to be useful and lay the table in the front room?”

“Oh, can’t we eat here?”

“If you’d rather, we can.”

“Much rather. Everything piping hot, and you won’t be everlastingly running off to fetch dishes, will you?”

It was so long since any one had minded what she did that Eve caught her breath in a half-sob.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.”

It had seemed rather cruel that this five minutes’ friend should say the very things Wynne never bothered to say.

“But you—”

“I did. I do silly things sometimes, but I’m not really hysterical.”

“I know.”

“How can you know?”

“I seem to know you very well. That remarkable husband of yours contrived to put a lot of you into the characters of my play. I used to puzzle about it—used to wonder where his extraordinary intimate knowledge came from.”

Eve was all enthusiasm in a second.

“You really mean that?”

“ ’Course. He used to show the women what to do in the most amazing way. Now I can see the source of his wisdom.”

“That’s made me happy. It’s nice to feel one is of use, isn’t it? There are some knives and forks in the box there, and the plates are in the dresser.”

It was because she could feel his eyes resting inquiringly upon her that she gave him this sudden direction.

Presently they sat down to the first course.

“This is jolly,” said Quiltan.

“It’s a change for you. I wonder—”

“What?”

“Only whether you would think it quite so jolly if it were all.”

For awhile he made no reply, then he laid down his knife and fork.

“I say,” he said, “shall we be friends?”

“I am sure we shall be.”

“I mean— Well, this meeting of ours was never really intended, so one might excusably assume that it had never taken place. Wouldn’t we be justified, then, in talking to one another as we might have talked to ourselves if we had been alone?”

Eve shivered. “It might not be a happy conversation.”

“Even so—why not? We could be as honest as dreams are, and what we said could be as easily forgotten.”

“I’m frightened of dreams,” said Eve. “They never come true.”

“Won’t you tell me one that hasn’t come true? If it hasn’t come false there is hope for it yet.”

“I suppose there is.”

“Won’t you tell me that dream?”

“If you promise to wake up and forget it.”

“Tell me first.”

And so, rather haltingly, but with growing confidence, Eve told the stranger of her hopes:

“I can see clearly now, it was a companion Wynne needed, that’s all—a mental companion. Had I been a man I might have entered more deeply into his life. You see, we fought to rise out of this rut, and now he has begun to rise he finds that I am part of the rut—something to be left behind. I believe a man and woman were not intended to live together as we have—there was no fire, you see—we were just partners. The marriage link cannot be welded without fire. I wonder—do you understand what I mean?”

He nodded gravely.

“Wynne’s was all mental fire. The embers of his love for me have never glowed into a flame.” She laughed to smother a sob. “They are out—out altogether—dead and cold! At least it seems so. I have been like a book to him—an information bureau and debating society in one. Ever ready to supply the thoughts that were not self-revealing. And now I have been read from cover to cover, and it’s foolish, I suppose, to expect a place in the new library.”

“What a damnable story!” said Quiltan, with sudden fierceness. “I feel like—kicking him.”

“Don’t feel like that. Everybody has wanted to kick Wynne. It was the first thing which drew me toward him. And when you look at it all from his point of view, you can see.”

“You find excuses for him?”

“Easily.”

“How—how?”

“I love him.”

“Still?”

“Yes. And I’d go through just such another three years if I thought that he would love me at the end—gladly I would.”

“But suppose he never does love you! What then? How long can you last out like this? Don’t you want to live?”

“Oh, yes, I want to live.”

“Well then?”

“But all the folk who want to live can’t have their way. Perhaps I shall just go on wanting till even the want dies.”

“That’s unthinkable.”

“But very possible.”

She became suddenly aware of the intensity of his expression. The sinews of his close-shut hands showed white, and in his eyes burnt a strange fire. An odd fear seized her, and to cover her nervousness she quoted at random.

“Don’t you remember the Browning lines:

He seized on the purport of a single line, and said:

“Isn’t the alternative better, perhaps, than this?”

“Death?” she queried.

“ ‘Some with deeds as well undone.’ ”

He spoke with a queer hoarseness.

For a moment she held his eyes steadily, then with quick colour turned away her head.

“I thought,” she said, “we were to be friends.”

“Haven’t you had enough of friendship?”

She had thought he would recover himself at the rebuke, but if anything his voice was more insistent.

“Haven’t you?” he repeated.

“There is no need for you to make love to me, Mr. Quiltan.”

“How do you know?” he retorted. “How can you possibly say that?”

She rose and moved some plates to the dresser.

“I suppose you were sorry for me, and thought that the kindest way to show it. You were wrong.”

His reply was unexpected:

“How can you possibly say I was wrong? You don’t know—you don’t know what may have happened to me since I came here. If I made you think I am a lover by trade I apologize—for it’s the last thing I would have you believe.”

She scarcely knew what to answer, but there was no need, for he started afresh:

“D’you know, I have never been in love with any one before. I have never even made love to any one; but, by God! I want to make love to you. The instant you opened the door I knew something had happened to me. I’m in love with you—do you understand?—absolutely.”

Despite the startled fear these crazy words awoke, Eve could not but feel a sudden impulse of warmth. In the midst of the passionless monotony of her life—at a time when her every thought was doubting if she possessed any one quality to endear—came this sudden avowal, backed by a sincerity that could not be misunderstood. The very surprise written on his face testified that he meant all he had said.

So they looked at each other with the greatest perplexity, and only the silliest, most conventional phrase found its way to Eve’s lips.

“I’m married,” she said. “You forget. You mustn’t speak so.”

“I deny your marriage, so why shouldn’t I speak as I feel? I must speak.”

“When I ask you not?”

His hands fell to his sides.

“Why do you ask me not? Is it nothing to hear of love, even though you may not need it? Oh, I⁠—”

“Please.”

He took a step toward her, then turned sharply away. Presently he laughed:

“Ha! I said we’d be as honest as dreams are—and we have been. You know how dreams go—leaping from rock to rock—clearing all difficulties—you and the subject to the predestined end.”

“What is the predestined end?” said Curiosity.

“To make you happy.”

“Is that a part of love?”

“All of mine,” he said.

She stretched out her hand.

“Oh, you’re rather good. I’m glad you came, you have given me back what I had lost.”

“What?”

“You’ve given me hope.”

“I wish I could give you reality.”

“Hope is better, New Friend.”

“Until it dies.”

“It shan’t die,” said Eve, with a sudden fierceness.

“But if it should, would not reality help you to forget?”

“I don’t know.”

“How would you know if hope had died?”

“If—if he failed me altogether,” she slowly answered.

“I understand,” said Quiltan.

VI

Wynne Rendall was not a little irritated at Quiltan’s failure to keep the appointment. He lunched alone at the club, and for want of better occupation strolled round to the theatre afterwards. He walked on to the stage at the very moment Miss Esme was beginning her scene, and, observing him, this young lady very promptly gave up all attempts to proceed, and said:

“I do wish you wouldn’t come to rehearsals—you frighten me most dreadfully.”

“Come along, Miss Waybury,” insisted the stage manager.

But Wynne held up his hand.

“Wait a bit. We’ll go over it together. Take the rest through, Henson, and read for Miss Waybury.”

He led the way to a comfortable office which had been set aside for his use, and nodded Esme toward one of the big leather chairs.

“Now then, what’s the matter with you?”

“You frighten me.”

“Do I?”

“Umps!”

“Don’t believe it,” said Wynne. “You’re up to some mischief, you are.”

Esme pouted and looked at him demurely for just the right length of time.

“I’m not.”

“Oh, yes you are.”

Esme hesitated. “Well, I can’t help liking you.”

“Heroic announcement of an infatuated young lady. And now what good purpose do you suppose that will serve?”

“No good.”

“At the first guess!”

“Because you’re so stand off.”

“Would the purpose be any better if I weren’t?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, think.”

“No. You’re horrid—you’re trying to tie me up.”

“Believe me!” Wynne negatived.

“Yes, in words—and I can’t talk.”

“Eloquent in other ways?”

“I’m not.”

“Oh, yes. That pout, for instance.”

“You are horrid.”

“But I like the pout. You pout ever so much better than you act—you should stick to pouting. Pout now!”

“I shan’t.”

“Come, just a little one—one small pout.”

“No.”

“I insist.”

“You can’t make me.”

“I’m waiting.”

Esme covered her mouth with her hand. “Now what are you going to do?”

“Wait—go on waiting.”

Very slowly she lowered her hand, and for a short second he saw the little red lips screwed up in obedience to his command. Absurd as it may seem, the foolish conquest gave him a perplexing thrill.

“Again,” he said. “It was too short.”

“No,” said Esme, shaking her head. “I shan’t do it again. You’re laughing at me.”

She rose and moved a little toward him and the door.

“And what’s wrong with that?”

“Don’t want to be laughed at—not by you.”

“I doubt if you know what you do want.”

“ ’Tany rate I shan’t tell you.”

“Wonderful independence!”

“I’ll go back now, please.”

“Never neglecting her studies for an instant!”

Esme came level with him and laid her hand on the door knob.

“Sometimes,” she began, “I think—I think⁠—”

“No.”

“I think you are a very good little boy.”

She opened the door, but as quickly he closed it again.

“What do you mean by that?”

Her eyes rested on the pattern of the carpet. There was brighter colour on Wynne’s cheeks as he repeated:

“What do you mean by that?”

“Just what I said.” Her eyes were still lowered. “ ’Course I don’t blame you—some people are born good—some people can’t help it—some people aren’t plucky enough to be anything else.”

They stood without moving, while new and insane senses started to pulse in his side and throat.

Then very slowly Esme raised her chin and looked at him, her eyes half hidden by their lids, her lips curled in a moist, mocking pout.

In an instant Wynne’s arms fastened round her, but she pressed away from him.

“You mustn’t kiss me—you mustn’t. If you did I don’t know what would happen.”

“I don’t care,” said Wynne, madly.

So having won her pretty little battle she struggled no more, but put her lips where best they might be reached.

VII

Five minutes later he was speeding northward in a taxi. He had given the driver his home address, but he said a second later:

“No; drive me out Hampstead way—keep going—any old where.”

Then he lay back and let the wind rush through his hair, while his thoughts ran riot.

His last words to Esme had been:

“In a few days—I’ll arrange something.”

He had meant it—he meant it still. She was nothing to him—only youth. But youth was splendid. What did anything else matter? He felt like some wild young thing of the forests when the “spring running” was in the air. A great sense of release possessed him. It was unlike any other sensation he had ever known. He was amazed it should have sprung from so trivial a source, but ignored to inquire more deeply into this line of thought. Had he but known it, the change that had come about in him—that curious, half-wicked ecstasy—was of the same emotional coinage that attacks the average boy when first he kisses a pretty chambermaid in the dark of a dormitory corridor.

As the taxi climbed the Hampstead hill his thoughts turned to Eve, and he wondered how he should approach her in the telling of the affair. After all, there was nothing to tell yet—but later there would be.

In his insane exuberance he decided that he would make no attempt to mask his actions. If he were not ashamed he would not act as though he were. Emphatically not. Let people say what they might, he would steer his own course—go his own way for all the world to see.

Would Eve mind a great deal? Why should she? After all, there was but a partnership of brain and work which bound each to each. He wondered even if there would be any infidelity in what he proposed to do.

But what had infidelity or partnership, or obligation or anything else, to do with it? He was an artist, unruled by law or convention. If he desired an excess of the brain he had indulged the desire—why not, then, an excess of the body.

In the middle of the Heath he left the taxi, and tramped across the soft turf. He walked fast and in a large circle. As he went he sang to himself, and once, hat in hand, chased a butterfly as a schoolboy might have done. In the little clearing among the trees he came upon some boys and girls playing a boisterous laughing game. The girls were flappers with short skirts, and cheeks rosy with running. He stayed to watch them, and, fired by enthusiasm, shouted encouragement to pursuer and pursued. One of the bolder shouted back that he should join in, and without a thought he threw aside his coat and was racing and laughing with the rest. The game was postman’s knock, and as postman he caught the prettiest after a spirited chase, and kissed her as they collapsed into the tangled brambles.

Still laughing and breathless, he picked up his coat and followed his way.

The sun was falling red, and the chill evening air tasted like champagne.

Champagne—yes—he would go to the club and drink champagne—lots of it. He wanted to hear men talk—listen to and applaud their tales of adventure. He had laughed at them—hurled at their frailty lampoons through the press, and yet tonight he would laugh with them—yes, with them, for they were right, and he, for all his wisdom, had been wrong—wrong—wrong.

God gave unto each man one life—to make the most of. That was the wise man’s creed.